


Inheritance Through Blood

by AnotherWriterWhoWrites



Series: 2020 366 Days of Writing [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Caring John Winchester, Dark Dean Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Gen, Good Parent John Winchester, John Winchester Tries, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Protective John Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherWriterWhoWrites/pseuds/AnotherWriterWhoWrites
Summary: Having the Mark of Cain since birth Dean tries his best to be on the right side, hunting all that's supernatural in an attempt to show that he is in fact human. But as the years go on and the lines between his two sides start to blur more, he finds it harder to really find the line in the sand.
Series: 2020 366 Days of Writing [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590919
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

When Dean was born Mary couldn't help but notice a strange birthmark on the inside of his right arm. It looked like a seven with an extra line and laid there, slightly faded on his skin.

The doctors waved away her concerns, birthmarks came in all shapes and sizes and most of the time they faded over time. She did some research of her own as well and conceded that, letting the mark drift away from her mind as Dean got older.

Because she had a lot more to focus on as Dean grew up.

Dean was a loving and a caring child, he was gentle and would always toddle after her or John. He would grip onto their fingers, hands too small to hold their hands, and he'd always smile up at them, as innocent as an angel.

It was to other people that he was a child hellion that there were times Mary had wanted to dig out her old notes to see what possibly could be happening to her child.

Dean was human, that much she knew. He squirmed at church that John's mother had wished for them to go to but so did the other kids his age there. He didn't react to any prayers or blessings so that had to mean that anything demonic was out.

There were no hex bags around the house or anything else that could possibly do something to change him so maybe...it was just how Dean was.

Every other day was something new, another call from the daycare that Dean had gotten into yet another fight. Each time the phone rang her heart would skip a beat and she dreaded hearing what had happened.

The director of the daycare reminded Mary every single time that the only reason she allowed Dean to stay was because John had fought alongside her husband in Vietnam and had saved his life. Otherwise she would've expelled him a long time ago.

Mary fought the urge to punch her herself and then wondered if maybe Dean got her anger and that's why he was the way he was with other people.

It was an unending fight with John. Or maybe fight wasn't the right word to use, they argued and despaired together, trying to figure out what was wrong with Dean. If he always was like that, attacking and fighting and snarling like people claimed he was with them, that would be one thing.

But he was always so nice to them, so loving that a part of her maybe believed that everyone else was lying. She technically never saw it happen, never saw the anger flash in Dean's eyes that everyone claimed he had. All she saw was the end result of his hands being scratched and torn, sometimes bloodstained.

Sometimes his blood.

More often not.

She blamed herself, something in her poisoned blood did this, had made her baby and her pride and joy into this other person.

John blamed himself, citing his sins in Vietnam as a penance at this time.

And neither of them knew what to do or how to handle it.

They tried to talk to him about it, tried to figure out why he would attack the other kids. Dean squirmed and whined, trying to find the right words to say as he scratched at his arm. Mary noticed that he would usually scratch over the unusual birthmark.

It had to do with that birthmark, she was sure of it. She would touch it and look it over, but nothing other than its shape was different than any birthmark she had. It wasn't risen on his skin and when she tried to feel if there was something under it inside of the skin there wasn't anything. It was a slightly faded brown color and it was completely and utterly innocent.

But she had a feeling about it. Long buried hunting instincts were practically screaming at her and well...

She knew better than to not listen to them.

She knew that it was a matter of time before something more permanent happened. Either Dean hurting someone so badly that the other kids parents call the police or Dean could get hurt himself by targeting someone bigger than him.

Short of maybe finding some sort of psychiatrist with the possibility of heavy medication she had no idea what else to do.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea but she took Dean out of the daycare and kept him home with her the entire time. He was calm and loving, cuddling her and staying by her side the entire time. The complete opposite of what kind of a child everyone else claimed that he was.

And then Mary got pregnant again and she'd admit it, she was scared of what was going to happen.

It was clear that Dean had some sort of problem with other children, she wasn't sure what to call it or what it was. And bringing another child into this?

She was downright terrified of bringing a small baby into the house. And John would never admit it but he was too.

Dean was intrigued by the baby growing inside of her. He was always touching her stomach, pressing his ear against it as it grew, and excitedly helped her to decorate the nursery.

And after she gave birth and held her baby Sammy in her arms as John brought Dean into the room, a guarded expression on his face. He kept a hand on Dean's arm, not curled around it just yet but ready to grab him and pull him away from a helpless baby at the first sign of...anything. At this point they had no idea what to expect.

Dean had clambered up the bed and stared down at the bundle that was his little brother, an expression neither of them could read on his face. The both of them tensed up when Dean reached out to touch Sammy.

But then they relaxed when all Dean did was gently stroke over Sammy's cheek with the end of his finger, marveling at the sight of his brother.

"Hi Sammy." Dean whispered to him. "I'm your big brother."

Mary let out a breath she hadn't realized that she had been holding and leaned back into the bed, meeting Johns gaze tiredly and seeing the same relief in his eyes.

Dean was devoted to Sammy from day one, tuned into him and always listening. He would demand to carry Sammy around and wanted to be a part of everything with him, throwing a tantrum if they didn't allow him to.

Shortly before Sammy was six months old they decided to try putting Dean into kindergarten, something Dean seemed to be alright with until he realized that it meant he'd be away from Sammy for a few hours of the day.

The very first day the principal called to say that Dean had attacked another student, a first grader, and had managed to somehow punch out the other child's tooth.

They weren't even sure where Dean had learned to throw a punch, neither of them had taught him that.

They broke and finally started to call various psychiatrists. Not sure how to even word it without possibly putting Dean in danger. It took some research and a lot of calls but eventually they found someone and made an appointment for November 3rd, first thing in the morning.

On the night of November 2nd, as Azazel slid into the house with ease, he had been given permission after all and if there were any wards up to prevent them; they wouldn't work. His feet landed in the nursery, eyes pinned on the baby that was still awake and turned to look at him from his movements.

He started to walk towards the babe, pausing when he properly scented the air, eyes narrowing slightly as he realized a slight pulse of power. Barely there, barely activated, but a promise of bloodshed and destruction.

Promises of better and beautiful things.

He looked at the babe awaiting the sacrament and slipped out of the nursery, just for a moment, just to see where the source of this promise was.

There was a second bedroom where the older sibling laid asleep, limbs askew. And there, clear as anything, on the inside of his right arm laid the Mark of Hell, the Mark of Damnation, the Mark of Cain. 

Passed straight down from the first, the ancestor, Cain; the First Knight of Hell, the First Murderer. Names upon names. 

Azazel felt the lips of his vessel curl up in a semblance of a smile, yellow eyes sparkling as he contemplated the whole situation. 

"Well, this is going to be interesting." he murmured under his breath, turning to go back to the nursery. Standing over the crib he stared down at the babe, the sibling of another human blessed by the Mark of Hell. He pressed his nail into his wrist, pressed hard enough until the skin finally broke and blood dripped down. He held his arm out and watched as the drops fell onto Sammy's lips, his tongue coming out to lick at it, snuffling slightly at the taste. 

"There we go." he murmured. "Drink up and be strong."

He could hear footsteps coming to the nursery, just barely turning his head as he heard the familiar voice of Mary calling out to him. "John? Is he hungry?" she asked, barely biting back a yawn. 

Azazel gave a small noise, shushing her as to not disrupt Sammy as more drops fell in between his lips and he swallowed. He could feel the pulse inside of him as the human was changed for the better, stronger. 

"Alright." he heard Mary say, leaving the room. Poor Mary Campbell, a hunter's child and yet...so naive, so down on her guard after making a deal with a demon. He had liked her back then, back when she had the fire of a hunter aiming to take the world by storm. 

Marriage and motherhood had made her weak. It was incredibly disappointing. 

And yet, she could hear her scrambling up the stairs, could hear her pleading voice call for her son's name. 

What a pity. He had wanted to leave her alive, and had been interested to see what she would do once she realized what both of her sons would be. She came into the room, staring at him in horror. 

"It's you." she whispered. Her eyes went to Sammy who was watching the both of them. "Get away from-"

It was barely a flick of his finger to slam her against the wall, a pity but he had warned her, just like he had warned them all. 

As the fire spread and Mary started to scream he let himself think about the other child, that one that held the inheritance of the Mark of Hell. 

This was going to be interesting to see just what kind of a person his Sammy will become, demon blood inside of him and an already damned brother at his side.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean took to hunting like a fish to water and it terrified John to the core.

He had tried to drag it out as long as he could. Kept everything to a theoretical level, books after books from Bobby to keep his attention under the guise of needing to learn about monsters before being able to hunt them. Dean was not a reader, that was Sam, so it was a hassle to get him to do it but thankfully Dean listened loyally.

But then it got to the point that he had no other choice to start teaching him how to use a weapon and how to fight.

Every town they came to, every school he enrolled Dean into, he could almost count down the hours until that call came that Dean had gotten into yet another fight. And he had no idea how to deal with it without Mary at his side, she was able to spin stories upon stories until the principals and teachers had no choice but to look at Dean a bit more sympathetic.

But he called back to that ol' Kansas charm; the yes ma'ams, no ma'ams, and despite how it twisted his stomach to do so, he had no qualms in bringing up the fact that the boys momma had been killed in a fire, horrible thing that Deans still trying to come to grips with.

Most of the time it worked, the principals melted at his tone and words, watching Dean with newfound sympathy and pity.

Dean hated the pity more than anything and John would have to reach down to grip his hand which Dean gripped back tight enough to hurt even him as a distraction.

But as Dean grew up and started to act out more and more. Which eventually led to more fights and more calls from schools. He had no outlet other than getting into fights, and starting to pick them at bigger kids.

He knew he shouldn't be but when Dean managed to bring down kids older and bigger than him, he was a bit proud.

But he also was scared about what that meant for the future. Maybe Dean needed something else, needed an outlet of some kind so that meant...

So he willingly handed over a knife to his ten year old son who took it and gripped the handle tightly, fingers flexing around it as he stared at his own reflection in the blade with a glint in his eyes...

It scared him more than any monster out there.

His only consolation was that Dean had never raised a hand to his family. Not even to Bobby, though sometimes he had a dark look on his face when Bobby spoke about John taking his kids into the hunting life.

He was gentle with Sam, looking after his brother with care and love. Despite everything else that had happened one of the things John never feared was leaving his youngest son with his eldest.

And Sam adored Dean, clinging to him as tightly as he could, curling around him when they slept in the same bed, and Dean held on just as tight.

That showed him something. It showed Dean...that despite all that anger building up in him, God knew where he had no idea, he was still a good kid. He still loved him and Sammy, still wanted to do good.

So, he started to take Dean out with him on hunts and well...there was a good side and a bad side to it. Once Dean went on hunts and got out his...anger, because he didn't want to use the other word that came to mind, he was calmer at school. Still prone to shooting words and throwing fists but this time he wasn't the first one to throw the punch.

So John kept him physically busy. When there weren't any hunts he trained him, making him run laps after laps, even splurging to buy him a punching bag to hang in the room and go at.

He did have to stop buying them after Dean broke his second one after a week without going on a hunt.

And Dean on a hunt...that was a sight to behold in the worst way possible.

It was the purest outlet that he could find for Dean. He was calm after a hunt, at ease. Less prone to snapping at them, words only never physical, but whenever he watched his son on a hunt.

He was terrified. Dean with a weapon in his hand and a monster to aim it at was something straight from a horror movie. Dean didn't just enjoy the hunt, he relished in it, adored it in a way that made John want to stop all of it and find something else to help Dean.

Problem was, nothing did.

Dean had the finesse and the precision needed on a hunt, problem was, he didn't use any of it. He turned his nose up at guns, upper lip curling in displeasure every time John handed it to him to use.

Dean enjoyed knives, loved their usefulness and how much they helped. When it came to picking a weapon, if he had to, between a gun and a knife; he'd pick the latter every single time. And every time John would have to take the knife from him and press a gun into his hands, placing the knife in Dean's jacket instead.

Dean hated sneaking from behind to get the drop on them and shoot them in the head, all the steps needed to end a hunt quick and easy with as little blood as possible.

He preferred to go in and get as bloody as possible. Ripping into the monster with utmost glee that he no longer tried to hide at that moment, the silver of the knife barely visible from how much blood and gore covered it and then him.

The first time was when Dean was ten years old, the look of realization, and peace but John would never admit to that, that appeared on his face when he had first buried his knife into a werewolves chest...

It haunts John's nightmares just as often as Mary's death.

He made the mistake of taking Dean on a hunt with another hunter, a simple one named Matt Johnson that was in town and asked for another pair of hands and gun. He snorted when John turned up with Dean, taunting him about babysitting and whether or not Dean had to be tucked in.

He then doubled over when Dean punched him in the stomach and John would admit, he wasn't about to lecture his son about that.

But the hunt had gone on like all the others. John and Matt planned while Dean fidgeted, itching for the actual hunt.

And he hated it but he started to plan his hunts so that they could subdue the monster, but he could also give Dean his opportunity to work out his...emotions or whatever it was.

He didn't tell Matt, the man didn't have to know what was going on with his family. This was between him and Dean.

So the hunt went off like it was supposed to, it was a rugaru that had recently gone over the edge and turned, eating and gorging itself on human flesh. Matt was delegated to get the still living human out and to safety while Dean and John would get the rugaru.

That was the plan and it worked, John had gone in to subdue the monster, gunshot to the leg so that it couldn't move, and then with an extremely heavy heart, he stepped back and let Dean go in. He blocked out the monsters screaming and the sound of the knife slashing through flesh.

But he did hear the sound of footsteps coming to a stop and he looked up to see Matt standing there, staring in shock and horror.

"What the fuck is wrong with him?" Matt demanded. "He's a blood thirsty fuck." And then John saw him going for his gun at his side.

He reacted fast and on instinct. He got his gun out first and with a single shot, Matt fell to the ground with a bullet in the middle of his forehead.

Dean had fallen silent John realized. He turned back to his son and saw a look on his face that he had never seen before. He looked young, younger than he had in a very long time. He had dropped his knife, the rugaru was long dead, and looked at him and back at Matt.

John put the gun back into his holster before slowly going to his son. He heard a whimpering sound escape him, he'd never heard such a sound from him, and suddenly Dean moved and threw himself at John, gripping at him tightly. He wrapped his around him and just held Dean close as he shook.

Later, when they were burning both the bodies, Dean stared at the ground, stared at the knife in his hand before he slowly looked up at John, the fire reflecting in his eyes.

"Dad...is there something wrong with me?" Dean asked, his voice cracking and breaking.

John didn't know how to answer that, didn't know what to say to make things better and explain it all away. They never talked about this, never mentioned that Dean was different, that he had to be treated differently. That at times he felt like he had to walk on eggshells around his eldest son.

Mary would know how to answer, she would know what to tell Dean to assure him and not hurt him.

But he had no idea what to say.

"You're just different Dean, different doesn't mean bad." John told him, staring into the fire for another moment before he looked down at his son once more.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he told Dean. "Nothing."

Dean might scare him at times, but he was his son and he was lost and hurting, looking to him for comfort in a way he hadn't since Mary had died. John knelt down so that they were at eye level and wrapped his arms around Dean, just holding onto his son as he did the same.

He didn't give a damn why Dean was like this, he'd help him deal with it. He'd find ways to help Dean in whatever way was possible.

Dean was his son, first and foremost, and he didn't give a damn what he had to do to protect him. Even if it meant protecting him from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Supernatural.
> 
> 141/366
> 
> I do take requests so if you have requests you can send them to me.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean knew that there was something wrong with him.

Dad could say whatever he wanted, avert his gaze every time it was brought up or during those times on a hunt that they never spoke about. It was those times he could hear someone else talk to his dad about him, most of the time either Pastor Jim or Bobby.

Both of the other men would try to bring it up to John, with Dean listening around the corner so that none of them knew that he was there. One would mention something about him and how he was on a hunt and his dad would either immediately defend him or grit his teeth almost so audibly that he could hear him from his hiding spot.

"Hunting itself is a fucked up thing, is it really that bad a thing that Dean tries to find some sort of content in what he's doing?" was John's most common go to defense. It worked, most of the time.

But only because they never really saw Dean at the end of a hunt, John made sure of that ever since that first and only time when he had been ten. Once they got the monster all rounded up John would go and find whoever else they were hunting with while Dean got to work doing what he did best.

He didn't know how to explain it, he couldn't really find the right words to really describe the itch under his skin. The growing desire to just wrap his fingers around the handle of his knife and bury it deep into something alive.

As he got older he managed to be able to control it to a degree. He got into less fights at school, learned to just leave the situation if necessary.

Unless the kid was stupid enough to follow him, then Dean would usually turn around and punch him in the face. If the kid was lucky, he'd just end up with a black eye.

But most of the time his punches were strong enough that he'd break their noses and sometimes even punch out their teeth.

It got harder for his dad to come in and find excuses for him so that he wouldn't get in trouble. In the end, he just ended up skipping school most of the days until he could legally, or in some states they were in illegally, drop out.

What he did instead was work, mainly in construction whenever he could. Keeping his hands busy kept his mind off of the itch for a while before it got too much and he'd search the papers for a hunt of some kind.

He didn't really understand it, why he was like this or why he wanted so badly to find someone to kill. Not just beat, not just torture, not just maim, kill. The torturing and the hurtin was a bonus, a bonus that he reveled in, but the real pleasure was that last moment, that last few seconds where the life left the beings eyes were the best part.

Watching that light leave, the loosening grip, the rasp of a last breath. Holding that life in your hands and feeling it all be extinguished.

There was no better feeling like it. Not even sex could compare.

He sometimes felt like he was walking on a wire every day and the simplest shove, the smallest wind, could push him over to the side and he'd end up beating the crap out of someone. Those are the times that they have to quickly pack up and leave town as quickly as possible with John gripping the steering wheel tightly and Sam bitching in the backseat as Dean nursed his bruised knuckles.

And always he'd end up wrapped his hand around the inside of his arm covering where his weird birthmark was, pressing down into it and he wasn't sure why but that helped a bit.

One thing that surprised him was that he felt this feeling towards everyone around him. From people he's known for years to the guy on the street that bumped into him and didn't apologize. But the surprising thing was that...he didn't feel it to Sam or their dad.

Sam could whine and bitch and moan about anything and everything, and the little brat did, but he never felt the same rush of anger that he felt to others.

And that was a good thing, if he had hurt his dad, or worse his brother, he wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to forgive himself.

And really, it was the exact opposite of what he usually felt. Being around his brother and dad...it helped to ground him. It soothed the itch in a different way than picking the knife up did.

Especially Sam. Sam was...

If it was hard to explain what the urge he had to hurt and kill people, explaining what Sam was to him was a completely other degree of incomprehension.

Being around Sam...it was like it was giving him something to focus, something to strive for. It gave him a focal point, something to hone in on and know how to come back. Late at night when he couldn't sleep he could almost feel a pulsating sensation between them that he couldn't really understand.

As Sam grew up that pull, that pulse, whatever it was between them, got stronger until he couldn't believe that Sam didn't feel it. And if he did, he kept it to himself.

But in the night, when he just stared at Sam, letting the pulse of whatever it was fill him, it was almost peaceful. Those were the days that he managed to be a bit more 'normal' than others. He wasn't so on edge, was on a thicker wire than he usually was.

But he also realized that on those days, he was angling more towards Sam. Takes his side when his brother argues with dad about staying in places for just a few more days. Started putting money from his jobs to the side to give to Sam so the kid could have just a little bit more. When he was supposed to go on dates and Sam would get that look on his face, he'd cancel his dates to stay in with motel tv and Sam.

So when the time came and Sam turned eighteen and declared that he was going to college, had gotten a full ride to Stanford, he had to almost physically stop himself from declaring that he was going with him.

Sam fought with their dad the entire time about the whole thing while Dean stayed behind, staring at the ground as he tried to ignore everything that was happening around them. He knew that his dad was freaked out about Sam leaving, he didn't want him to, that he'd be vulnerable to all hell by himself.

But talking and discussing things were never really their families forte, yelling things out and hiding them were. So the end result was Sam packing all his meager things and storming out the door. Dean hesitated but then grabbed his car keys and followed after him.

He ended up giving Sam a ride to the bus station instead of stomping there like it had been his original plan. They drove in silence until they reached the bus station where they hesitated.

Sam asked, in a quiet voice, for Dean to join him. To come with him to Stanford where they could live a normal life.

And he wanted to, listening to his brother's voice he knew that he wanted nothing more than to do as Sam said, go with him to California and just be there together.

But he knew that he couldn't. He had too many obligations to their dad, to hunting.

But most of all, he knew that he couldn't, because he wasn't normal. He might not know normal but he knew that normal people didn't get like he did. Didn't get that itch, didn't get that craving that he did to find someone and bury his knife in them.

So. He had to tell his brother no, tightening his grip on the steering wheel at the sight of the pain on his face. Before Dean could say anything else Sam got out of the car and to the station to get his ticket.

Dean watched him leave. Watched him get onto the bus, he hesitated with one foot on the steps, but he squared his shoulders and went the rest of the way into the bus.

He watched until the bus left and got on the road, until he couldn't see it anymore. Only then did he try to relax his grip around the leather steering wheel and forced himself to let go.

The inside of his right arm flared in pain and he felt the familiar feeling of anger start to settle inside of him as his hand shook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Supernatural.
> 
> 145/366
> 
> I do take requests so if you have requests you can send them to me.


	4. Chapter 4

“That was a waste of time.” John said, shaking his head as he got out of the bed, crossing the room to grab his clothes. “The demon, not you.”

“I’m flattered.” Tara dawdled. “You sure know how to charm a girl, exactly what she wants to hear.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes as he pulled his jeans on. “That demon had no idea what he was talking about, there are no more Knights and especially not a creator of them. Cain is a biblical story.”

“Every story is true in its own right.” she said, stretching and sitting up. “You already leaving? Not even gonna stay for food?”

“I have to go.” he said briskly. “The demon killed my time and I have other leads to focus on. I’ll call you some other time.”

Pulling his jacket on John half glanced at the papers on the desk, giving a double take and freezing when he saw one of them. Ignoring whatever Tara was saying he crossed over to it and grabbed the paper, yanking it free and staring at the mark on it. 

“What the hell is this?” he asked in a low demanding voice, practically burning the paper with his eyes. “What is this?”

Tara lazily looked at what he was holding and got out of the bed, taking it from him. “It's what the demon was talking ‘bout.” she told him. “The whole deal with Cain and the Knights.”

“But this,” John said, reaching for the paper and gritting his teeth when Tara held it out of reach. “What is this mark specifically?”

The other woman raised an eyebrow at that. “Getting awfully worked up, ain’t ya?” she asked, folding the paper in half and tossing it somewhere behind her, amidst her books and journals. “Why? You’ve seen it before?”

John glared at her, feeling everything come to a rise inside of him as he fought the urge to give a snarl. “Tell me.” he ordered. “Now.”

“Down boy, I don’t like it when a request sounds like a threat.” she said coolly. “What the hell do you think it is? It's the Mark of Cain.”

John's teeth pressed hard enough against one another that he was sure one of them cracked. He pushed past her and went to the table, grabbing and unfolding the paper as he looked at it. 

A simple mark that almost looked like any other, what looked like the number seven with a simple extra line underneath the head of it. Simple, and yet, terrifying in its connotation. 

He swallowed hard, his throat and mouth suddenly dry, as he tried to breathe out evenly. “And what the hell does the Mark of Cain mean?”

Tara grabbed her bathrobe and pulled it on, going to her pile of journals and tossing it at him. “Exactly what you think. Cain and Abel were true, Cain killed his brother and got the Mark that cursed him. He’s the creator of Knights and from what I hear he’s still out there in hiding.”

John grabbed her journal and skimmed through it, eyes moving rapidly as he tried to quickly see what else was written in there. “That doesn’t answer my question, what the hell does the Mark mean?”

Tara rolled her eyes at him, going into the kitchen and pouring herself some coffee. “Thought you don’t believe in it, why the sudden interest?”

“Just answer the damn question.” it took everything he had not to snap at her. 

“From the little bit that I’ve found and read the Mark of Cain is a symbol of murder.” Tara said. “A stigma, a brand, a taint, whatever you want to call it. It's where Cain got his power from and his ability to turn a being into a Knight.”

That didn’t make sense, there was nothing about him that was even remotely close to a Knight. 

He had tested him himself just to make sure, just so he could have peace of mind that he had done it and knew the answer. 

“But what else does it mean?” John pressed. “There has to be something else about this.”

Tara stared at him, slowly sipping from her cup. “Why?” she asked instead. “You’re suddenly really into this whole idea when five minutes ago you didn’t even believe in the notion of Cain being a real being.”

“That’s my business.” John told her. “Now answer the question, what else about the Mark is there?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, just watching him. “Just speculation, some humans that may or may have not had the Mark from birth.” she finally said. “Nothing good about any of them.” she shrugged. “But again, all speculation, no real truth.”

“What wasn’t good about them?” 

Tara shrugged. “From the little I’ve heard, they just weren’t good people. Lots of killings being done and lots of anger issues that were rarely properly taken care of. Most of the time they ended up killing themselves.”

John moved his jaw from side to side and looked down at her journal once more, lifting it. “I’m gonna take this for now, I’ll find a way to get it back to you.”

“Keep it, I have copies.” she said. “You gonna explain why you’re suddenly so interested?”

“No.” John said curtly, tucking the journal into his inner jacket pocket. “Take care.”

He didn’t bother to wait for an answer as he left her place, immediately getting into his truck and getting on the road, mind whirling as he tried to figure out what to do from here with everything that he had learned.

Miles away, car parked outside of Palo Alto, Dean frowned as he tried to call his dad again, feeling his stomach drop when he didn’t answer again. He debated to leave another message but decided against it, in case John needed the space for real voice messages that needed to be answered. 

He closed his phone and took a deep breath, staring at the sign that welcomed him to Palo Alto. Dad hadn’t answered his phone in a while and quite frankly, it was starting to scare Dean like crazy. The last message he had from him was from Jericho and that was over two weeks ago.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, taking a deep breath. He let go of the steering wheel to rub the inside of his right arm, feeling a burning sensation that he had slowly gotten familiar with over the years. Glancing at his hand he tried to feel something about the blood that was drying under his nails but ultimately, all he could think about was how good it had felt to punch shapeshifter over and over again until his skull finally cracked and he died in Dean's hands. 

And that was how he had managed to handle everything over the last four years that Sam had left for Stanford. He threw himself into hunting all the things that went bump in the night and more often than not, he’d forgo his weapons and just use his hands. 

It was more satisfying that way. 

Taking another deep breath he started the car once more, getting onto the road and slowly driving deeper into Palo Alto, trying to figure out the best way to talk to his brother about this, talk to him for the first time in person in the last four years. 

But the closer he got to his brother, who he could almost feel, could almost feel his heartbeat pulling him closer and closer, the better he started to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Supernatural. 
> 
> 153/366
> 
> I do take requests so if you have requests you can send them to me.


	5. Chapter 5

It's not that he and Sam had never hunted before, they had even prior to him going off to Stanford.

It's just that neither he nor their dad let Sam see the real ending of a hunt, the part that Dean was desperate for.

He wasn't sure how John hid it back then, maybe he played up to Sam not wanting to be hunting or he would say that Dean needed the extra practice, he didn't know and didn't care, just so long as he got to be alone with the monster to let out all the rage that was building inside of him.

Once it was done he took care of burning the torn remains, he didn't want his dad to see just how bloody everything had gotten once Dean had started.

Dean had taken over that part of the job when he had seen the look on his dad's face, the first time it really got...not even out of hand but...freeing. Like everything that he hadn't realized had been building up inside of him had suddenly been released in an almost orgasmic feeling.

It was even better than sex at times, the rush of endorphins and whatever the hell else was involved. It was freeing and full of pleasure that he couldn't even hope to achieve on his own or with a partner.

But that also meant taking care of the aftermath.

He had been a teenager at that point and reveling in the blood and gore of the things they hunted. It had just been a bit too long between hunts, between giving an outlet to the bloodlust growing inside of him.

He couldn't even remember what type of monster they had been hunting, he'd never cared about the type, only about one thing.

Whether or not he could make it bleed.

But like he had said, it had been too long between hunts and quite frankly, he was surprised he managed to wait until the end when dad let him get everything out.

But the end result had always been the same, the monster would be gagged to prevent it from making too much noise, and Dean did his work. He would start with a knife but it would always end up with his hands. Using them to tear into flesh and bone, punching until everything broke under him, staining his skin with blood.

He didn't even wait at that point, just tore into the monster, foregoing the knife completely and letting himself fall into that peace of mind that he found whenever he would manage to get to this point.

He wasn't sure what changed, he didn't feel like anything had changed, but once he had finished and turned around he saw his dad standing there staring at him with such a look of horror that it made all the peace inside of him immediately disappear.

His dad never made him feel like there was something wrong with him, never even hinted that there might be something wrong with him. But Dean knew the truth, and had known for a very long time.

His dad could deny it but he hated him and hated what he did, hated that he didn't understand what made Dean the way he was and hated that Dean couldn't control it.

So he took over taking care of the remains. Took care of salting and burning the remains, what little and torn apart there were, and cleaned up so that his dad didn't have to see just how wrong his son was.

So Sam had never seen him on a hunt, seen the real end, never knew just how fucked up his brother was and as they hunted together, things started to get a bit more distressed.

The last few hunts that they had been on together had been some of the least satisfying ones that Dean knew. Ghosts, wendigos, demons, more spirits. Nothing tangible, nothing that he could grab and make bleed and the whole basis of relief that he needed.

The wendigo might've worked but he never had a chance to work with one before and with Sammy being in danger he didn't even let him think anything other than protecting his brother and making sure that he was alright overwrote every single last part of him that wanted to tear apart the wendigo for his own relief and instead want to do it because it had tried to hurt Sammy.

And that was something else he had learned that night, that no matter how long it had been, no matter how much the bloodloss had built inside of him, the second that Sam was in danger everything disappeared with a rush of needing to protect his brother. The relief of seeing that Sam was alright and safe...it was more satisfying than killing.

But ultimately, that itch and desire came back and he almost desperately tried to find them a hunt that would involve them killing something that was actually physical.

And thankfully, they finally found one that involved a shapeshifter, something physical and full of life and blood that he could rip apart with his hands.

The whole hunt had been a mess from the beginning. From being called back to Stanford to being captured by the damn thing, he felt the anger rising more and more inside of him until he could barely see straight. When they finally managed to get a hold of the shapeshifter, with Sam helping and half carrying Becky away.

Finally leaving Dean along with the shapeshifter that looked like him who just leered at him with a smirk.

"Been aching for this, haven't you." the shifter jeered at him. "I can feel it. That little itch inside of you, god it almost drove me insane wearing your skin like this."

He laughed as Dean punched him, even as his head was snapped back and his jaw was loosened. Blood dripped down his face as he continued to laugh.

"You think you're so much better, just because you do this, you give yourself just a little bit of an outlet, a little bit of fun." he taunted. His head was thrown to the side at the next punch, eye swelling and closing.

He wasn't sure why, but the fact that the shifter was still wearing his face…

It made it easier to punch him.

"You can lie to yourself and everyone around you for as long as you like." the shifter rasped out, single eye twinkling. "But you know the truth, the real truth."

"You're just as much of a monster as I am."

Dean gritted his teeth and brought his arm back before letting his fist hit him again and again. His face, his chest, his stomach, anywhere and everywhere that he could reach. Anything to just get him to stop talking, stop saying anything.

He just wanted to get to the end result, to the part of this where he could feel relief and be at peace for just a little bit.

And if he ended up killing the thing that looks like him with his bare hands?

Then that was just a bonus.

He wasn't sure when he stopped, when the rushing sound of blood in his ears stopped, or anything else. But finally he stopped moving, staring down at the mess of skin, bone, and blood that used to be a shifter.

His knuckles were aching as was his hands, he was sure that he had torn skin and bruised them at the least. Nodding at the creation he left he straightened up and turned around.

To see Sam standing there in the doorway, staring at him in horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Supernatural.
> 
> 157/366
> 
> I do take requests so if you have requests you can send them to me.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Supernatural.
> 
> 137/366
> 
> I do take requests so if you have requests you can send them to me.


End file.
